Building a Future: Making Compost

Here you see bits of 4 gardens.

When I lived in the faraway Land of Mighty Topsoil (Iowa), I had no idea how lucky I was. That soil just GREW stuff --with virtually no effort on my part! I often enjoyed coming home from work and spending "alone time" moving plants or pulling weeds or cutting flowers. But now....  Now I live in an apartment atop a gravelly Korean mountain. I have a garden, but it's not the same.

Long-time readers may recall earlier garden reports (for example, see here).  You may also recall the varied antics of Australian friend Tracey (here). Today's post joins these happy topics in a fall report.

A few weeks ago, Tracey noticed the roadside leaf sweeping of campus ajummas.
Hmmm.... she said.   A project, she said.  I'll call Sherri, she said.

So a project was planned.  With her unmatched persistence (and a translator), Tracey scored the bagged leaves,
which we pick up Monday and Wednesday mornings.
And, yes, that is a twig broom  - which makes the PERFECT swishing sound.

Today was Wednesday. This is Bag Stop #1. 

We piled the bags into my van (today's haul broke our record: 15 bags!) and drove them
up the forested path to the garden.
This is a sneak photo of Tracey, who hates having her picture taken. 

Google research shows that a ratio of 4 bags of leaves per bag of horse manure is about right for rapid breakdown into Soil from Heaven.  Thus, we periodically travel to the horse stables, which is a short walk down the mountain but a significant drive off campus, through a local village, through winding rice roads, and up a steep pseudo-trail at which someone in years past has tossed wheelbarrows of moist concrete. We have been to the stables enough that even the guard dogs don't bother barking.  A couple of weeks ago, the owner and his friend invited us into the office (it's as nice a word as I can think of for the place) to have coffee.  Of course, we lacked a common language, so we resorted to lots of awkward gestures and pointing, and sipping (I don't like coffee; Assertive Tracey asked for water on my behalf.  And... I was given the honor of being served barley water, which is like strained river water).  Of course, at the END of the longest 20 minutes of my life, the friend decided that chatting in English would be just fine after all.

Setting up for manure collection.  The stable owner offered us use of his clever hand-made stand (of welded re-rod) that
perfectly holds the plastic "burlap" feed bags they give us for collecting manure.
We laugh every time: we visit this place: American and Australian women bagging horse poo from a rural Korean stable.  

I admit to shaming Tracey into this picture.  For your mom, I said.  She will be proud, I said.

And guess who stole my camera when I was busy shoveling....  One for your mom!  she cried.   

11 bags of fresh poo later, we drive quickly back to campus with all the windows open,
trying to swish the flies and stink away, hoping the odor leaves before we take students to church on Sunday.

Leaves, manure, more leaves....  Stop often for coffee and stories.   

Now, "coffee time" in Tracey language means "Let us sit comfortably and slowly sip our drinks and catch up on our lives and not return to our labors until the very last possible drop is a bare memory.  And maybe not even then for it is such a lovely day."  To a Brit (or Australian), "morning tea" and "afternoon tea" are events.  One plans for them and works one's schedule right around them.  In my mind, task-oriented American that I am, coffee = 2 minutes to wipe off dripping sweat and glug something down before continuing to work.  And to think that I once prayed for opportunities to learn patience.

Back to work (at last!).  We mix in kitchen scraps and various greens.
Here we used just-pulled sweet potato plants piled by the sneaky garden-growing grounds people
by the campus laundry room. 

W'e have filled both bins, which are made from pallets gleaned from the campus garbage bin.
We take a perverse delight in plunging our arms into the piles to detect the heat of decomposition.

When the bins were full, we started a free-range pile, layering and watering and turning.  I spied some discarded
fencing this morning, which might be pressed into service as another compost bin.

Each day we head home, trying to walk with dignity in compost-speckled clothes among our stylish neighbors. who wonder about our work. This is not Iowa, with foolproof gardens guaranteed to bloom, but together here in Korea we're building warm winter hope.